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“Good?” Her answer stumbles out and is coated in doubt.
“Maybe it’s not the right job for you, Jess. You need one where you’re not so tense all the time.”
“I’m not tense all the time.” Her tone isn’t defensive—more like defeated.
I raise an eyebrow. She shrugs, clearly knowing Zara has kept me updated.
“Ideally, Bailey should be with you at all times,” Jenny says, “like she would be for someone who needs a service dog.” She exchanges a quick questioning glance with me. “But I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“I get around a lot on my bike since I don’t have a car. That’s probably not safe, especially since she’s a puppy.”
I’ve anticipated Jess’s concern. “I have access to a trailer that two young kids used to ride in whenever their father went biking. We can train Bailey to ride in it.”
“And once she’s older,” Jenny says, “you can train her to run alongside your bike. I can help you with that. I’ll also give you tips on training her so she’s okay with riding in the trailer.”
“Raising a puppy isn’t cheap. What with the food and the vet bills.” Jess stares at Bailey, wiggling her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m about to do renovations on my house and my job at Picnic and Treats isn’t exactly stable.” She might be saying that, but the longing to be Bailey’s puppy raiser is bright in her eyes.
Dylan takes a cautious step toward us, but still maintains a distance between himself and Jess. “We do have some funding that helps to subsidize the cost.”
Dylan had already explained it to me. The money comes from donations. Most puppy raisers volunteer to cover the cost themselves, but the funding is for those individuals who’d be great puppy raisers but the expense would otherwise prevent them from helping. Some of the money raised from the festival will be used for situations like Jess’s. For people who struggle with PTSD and who would benefit from a psychiatric service dog but need some financial assistance for that.
Jess smiles at Bailey, the movement a small tilt of the lips. “What do you think, Bailey? Do you want me to be your foster mommy?” Her voice catches on the last word.
Bailey places her paw on Jess’s lap, and Jess’s smile widens. “I take it that’s a yes.”
37
JESSICA
April, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Nine daysafter I became Bailey’s foster parent, Bailey and I are standing on Simone and Lucas’s sidewalk, watching Troy, Lucas, Garrett, and Kellan play street hockey. Simone, Zara, and Emily are with us, helping to cheer the guys on.
Avery is also here, but Noah is at work. Much to my relief.
The four brothers aren’t the only ones playing the game. Six kids under the age of ten have joined them, not at all bothered by the late morning chill.
Bailey is sitting next to me, wearing her redService Dog in Trainingvest. I give her another treat to reward her for staying in place. She and I have been working hard together for the past ten days, focusing on her obedience training and training for public access.
A girl, wearing a hockey jersey and with cornrows tied back in a ponytail, easily steals the ball from Kellan and scores on Garrett. Simone and I jump up and down from the sidelines, cheering. “Go, Autumn!”
The nine-year-old grins at us, her warm copper skin the same color as Zara’s. Her teammate, who’s also her cousin, hugs her.
“She’s really good,” I say to the four women standing next to me. “I might not know much about hockey, but even I can see that.”
“According to Kellan, who coaches her hockey team,” Emily says, “she’s a natural. And she’s extremely driven. She has already decided she wants to one day play for the USA women’s team.”
I rub my hands together, trying to warm them up. “Wow, that’s impressive. At nine, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.” And I’m pretty much back to that point now that I’m starting my life over as someone else.
The two teams set up in the middle of the quiet street. Emily puts the tennis ball on the ground between the two centers, and the game resumes.
Autumn steals the ball from another player and passes it to Troy. He nails it past Garrett, who just misses it.
“Yay, Troy!” I yell, jumping up and down again—partly to warm up. I don’t remember San Diego ever being this chilly in April. My sweater is warm, but not when you’re standing outside this long.
But I don’t care.
